


give me that deathless death, my god

by itsokaybabytheresnoexit



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Battle, Bellatrix needs a hug, Could Be Canon, Could be continued, F/M, First War with Voldemort, Healing, How Do I Tag, I Wrote This While Listening to Hozier's Music, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied Violence, Magic, One Shot, Sad, Short & Sweet, Short One Shot, Somewhat Good Voldemort (Harry Potter), Wounds, it's depression season, kind of, summertime sadness by Lana del Rey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27262054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsokaybabytheresnoexit/pseuds/itsokaybabytheresnoexit
Summary: Bellatrix has been wounded in battle and Voldemort heals her scar as he considers their relationship. Also, she's taken a sort of opiate due to the wound, so she's more loose than usual. Dunno. Read if you want (?).Also: Bellatrix is drunk and...they talk about God? And men and? The modern times, those blasted things.
Relationships: Bellatrix Black Lestrange/Voldemort
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

“Stay still,” he tells her. His voice is rough.

“I’m fine. I’ll just get a potion, I’ll be fine in two days, My Lord.” He chuckles at her response. Even drugged, she hides her fear.

“Since a child you were always skittish about injuries. Always said they’d be perfectly fine, never wanted anyone to help.” The small, blue bottle of the strong opiate that she has swallowed makes it difficult for her to feel the pain of her injury. Her thoughts have grown blurry, her usual vivid sensations have faded away.

“Healing potions help, My Lord. And...I hate to trouble you.” She tries to sound respectful but fails, words slip from her lips, her head leans to the side. He is right, she hates being injured. It makes her panic. “It’s not my duelling arm,” she says, mostly to herself, and he admires the way she functions under the strength of the drug.

“No, it is not,” he agrees steadily. The hex has ripped her flesh apart, a deep wound gapes in the centre of her arm.

“My Lord, I am sorry to have failed you.” He drags the tip of the elder wand over a deep cut and watches it slowly mend, blood pumping again, flesh coming together.

“None-sense, Bella. You won that battle even when the rest were indisposed.” Sometimes she tires him, so terribly devoted that she is. He scolds himself. There will never be another woman as powerful as she, another soldier as valuable. “And you captured that Auror, and you brought everyone back safely, even wounded. You did well. In fact, you did excellent.” He twists the wand faster, her skin is tugged back, but it must hurt as if pierced through by a knife. She mumbles something he doesn’t comprehend, her eyes loose their usual clarity, she is almost swaying, half- asleep. A quick, careless motion, magic erupts, sparkles and dances on her skin, she raises her head in a quick, fearful motion. Her mood has turned to something sharp and alert.

“Careful, you’ll leave a mark!”

“Oh... ” The answer is low, playful. "Again?" He brushes his fingers over her shoulder and his voice sounds deeper than usual, he almost whispers in her ear. Long, white fingers grasp her wild hair and hold them away from her wound, he can see the way her body shudders at his touch. He can see the way to affects her, his presence behind her, the soft warning of his breath on the back of her neck. She seems calm now, reassured.

“Master,” she says sleepily. Her eyelids have grown heavy, it has been nearly half an hour under the effect of the potion. “Master...”

“Bella, don’t move. I’ll hurry up now. You’ll be alright in no time.” His usual healers are indisposed, he cares for her all alone. It makes him slightly uncomfortable; he is methodic and careful nonetheless.

“I always like it when you call me Bella.” He smiles at her dreamy tone and her sentiment. “I know.” There is a faint scar where her arm was in ruins, a scar that is quickly fading.

“I love you.” She leans her head backwards, resting on his body, neck stretched out, she looks up at him, grey eyes reflecting the light of the fireplace and the tapestry on the walls and even a corner

of the half-open window that lets the cold, winter air come in the room. Some stars, a piece of the moon. She’s always had such beautiful eyes.

“I love you,” Bellatrix repeats.

“I know,” he hums. Voldemort circles the chair, moving slowly, kneeling in front of her. She follows him with her head, those large eyes reflect the whole room. They reflect himself. They look at him and they have no depth, her eyes are nothing but a mirror, a perfect mirror, he sees a pale, deformed face, he sees dots of red. He takes her hands in his, he bows his head and looks at her again. The drug is wearing off slowly. “I can’t,” he tells her. There is something strict in his voice, something eternally detached. It is an information that has been there for quite a while, she is not surprised. Her eyes are still blurry yet his words register somewhere in their grey.

“Maybe in another life.” She breaths. “Maybe I’ll meet you in another life where you can love me. I will, I will. I know it.” She hangs her head, faces him, and he notices, for another time in the millions, how beautiful she is. She must be the most beautiful witch he has ever seen- she is a particular sort of beautiful. Nothing bad ever happens to that kind of beautiful people, and no matter what one is always tempted to forgive them.

“I’ll live forever,” he offers. His tone has began growing cold in its edges. She dismisses immortality with a slight shake of her head.

“Oh, this life wasn’t enough for me anyways,” she decides absent-mindedly.

“Your arm is healed,” Voldemort states. “It is done.” He cannot let her hands go, he tries to move but he is stuck into place. But he must. He drags away, he stands up.

“Thank you, My Lord,” she says dreamily. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll meet in the place behind the sky, this century or the next. Thank you.” He picks up the empty bottle and tucks it in his robes. “Master.” The sound of a song he cannot hear lulls her to sleep.

“I’ll tell the house elf to run you a hot bath, Bella.” He leaves quickly from the room, hurrying off. At the door, he steals a glance. Her back to him, facing the fireplace, the outline of her body. Peaceful, sleeping. He smiles to himself inside his head, though across his face the perfect mask remains. No, sentimentality has never served him. Yet, he keeps her close. He doesn’t understand that about himself. In mechanical steps, he walks away.


	2. Chapter 2

“God, you’re bad for me.” She swallows the piece of chocolate that has been melting inside her mouth. The empty bottles of wine rest on the carpet of the Manor’s living room, there is some exquisite vintage opened, it hovers above. He didn’t drink much, he only had three glasses. She had three bottles.  
“God,” he repeats, a hint of amusement in his voice. She shakes her head and sighs. “Narcissa has her own theories on the matter,” she says.  
“Oh?” He isn’t truly interested, she knows. It is simply late, and the deeper dark magic flows in her veins the harder it is to sleep. They’ve played chess, they’ve existed in silence, they’ve drank. “On God or on me?” Fear is the heart of love, she tells herself.  
“Both. She says -keeps saying- that my behaviour can be explained. To you, my attraction to you and your magic and the like.” Bellatrix gulps down the wine.  
“And?” He is looking at her now, his eyes are red and cold. She raises her head in a tired motion and feels the force of his attention rush through her body.  
“I never wanted a man, she says. I wanted a God.” She smiles sadly and notices she’s been smiling sadly entirely too often these days. He chuckles.  
“Do you think it true?” He leans his head to the side. “Bella?” Interested, forever unhinging her mind and setting it back into motion.  
“I don’t know, my Lord.” She can’t walk to her bedroom, she will fall. “Are you a God?” “Am I?”  
“God is meant to be dead,” she muses.  
“But I’m immortal.” He doesn’t care. He is growing restless.  
“You see, Master? A difference already.” She smiles. “And, you’re here.” The glass slips from her hand and falls on the carpet.  
“That, too.”  
“Are you more powerful than God?” The wine forms a stain she cannot see. “Probably. I am not dead and I am here,” Voldemort hums. He doesn’t have a heart. “Can you forgive me all my sins?” The taste of wine burns her throat. "Master?"  
“No.” It is a simple statement and later it will remain in her mind though it will not mean anything. She stares at the way the chandelier forms long shadows on the ceiling. “I can bring you new sins,” he offers. She agrees silently.  
“A new God.”  
“A God for our times,” he raises his empty glass. Hers is on the carpet. She raises her hand.  
“A God for the end of times.” She laughs. He places the empty glass on the table, she feels the violation of his magic against hers, the pure power of his presence. She didn’t felt like that in church- it had to be the killer without a soul who made her feel like she was praying.  
“Immortal, here, and unable to grant mercy, my Lord.”  
“I do not have mercy,” Voldemort states. Bellatrix scoffs. “How suitable.”


End file.
